


Looking Forward

by Missy



Category: Army of Darkness (1992), Evil Dead (Movies), Evil Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, F/M, Humor, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ash finds out that history repeats itself - again and again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking Forward

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to afullmargin for beta; also thank you to [shinymessoyay](http://shinymessoyay.livejournal.com/20423.html) for creating art for this story!

  
  
  


Ash had no idea how long he had spent kissing the curvaceous redhead in his arms, but the slap she delivered to his cheek (out of nowhere and completely unwarranted, he would huff later on) was a pretty big hint that it had gone on for too long. 

She pulled out of his grip and fixed her uniform with a glare. “I’m not that kind of girl!” she said.

Ash smirked down at her, rubbing his stinging cheek. He put the mask of his new arrogance back on. “Gimmie a few days and I’ll make you one.”

Her knee slammed into his balls, doubling Ash over in agony before she stalked off to Health and Beauty, where she worked and which Ash vowed never to visit again.

Once Ash regained his breath and his footing, he looked around at the ones surrounding him His fellow employees – the men and women whose asses he had just saved, thank you very much – stared at him with expressions of incredulity and pity. “Waddya looking at?” he growled. Then, at the top of his lungs, he shouted “GET YOUR ASSES BACK TO WORK!”

“Mister. Williams.”

He knew too well the autocratic tone of his boss, Mr. Smart. He cleared his throat nervously. “Sir…I..uhhh…” His eyes went wide. “She came on to me!”

He rolled his eyes. “Mop and bucket, Williams. There’s a spill back on aisle twenty that needs your attention.”

Ash growled and seized up the broom, muttering as he trailed water and detritus all the way to greeting cards. His little accident had caused someone else to have an accident, and he held his nose as he mopped up the mess.

Perfect end to a perfectly shitty day.

*** 

So this was what it was like to be Promised, he thought, as he slumped in front of his twelve-inch black and white set and took a slug from his bottle of beer. He should be able to conjure desire in any woman in the county. Snap his fingers and have a pile of money thrown onto his lap. Damn it, everything in the world should be his for the taking! Why the hell was he sitting here with a half-chilled slab of meatloaf TV dinner with his hand down his shorts, watching scrambled Skinnemax? He should be running around trying to get a babe or two to give him a grin, or trying to leverage the ‘S-Mart incident’ into a gigantic TV or book deal. But for some reason, Ash sat alone in his tiny, crummy apartment, staring at the same half-blurred boob while picking peas out of his cherry tart.

“Man, this blows.” He knew he should be grateful for having survived the Deadites, even though they continued to be a boil on humanity’s ass, but Ash remained embittered in regard to his fate and the fear that he would never see the far side of thirty.

He went to bed alone, glowering, and in desperate need of a little company.

****  
The alarm buzzed him awake at six in the morning. 

“Nuhh…five more minutes, Ma.” It always took him a couple of minutes to realize his Ma had been dead for years, and that he was quite on his own now. Grumbling, Ash dragged himself out of bed and toward the shower, where the needle-like tattoo of its spray beat itself out upon his skin. He groaned and scrubbed himself to a state of wakefulness before pouring a bowl of Sugar Bombs and pouring out a glass of orange juice. While Scratching himself through his heart-emblazoned boxers, Ash stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He knew he should fear his reflection – but who could resist staring at a gorgeous mug like his? He then finger-combed his hair into a state of presentability while he idly listened to the morning news piping in from the living room. 

_The time is six o’clock on a…._

“BORING!” Ash snorted, arriving in time to turn the channel. On the Fox affiliate a Road Runner cartoon blared from the TV set, and Ash leaned in to watch it with eager, childish glee, shoveling in his sugary cereal treat. He was nearly to the first commercial by the time he realized that he’d seen this exact short the morning before.

“Huh. Must be some kinda glitch,” he muttered to himself. He shrugged, dumping the empty cereal bowl in the sink before dressing for the day in the work ensemble he’d been sporting ever since he returned from the Middle Ages; a dark blue shirt, navy slacks, red and blue striped tie, his work smock and name tag, and two empty thigh holsters. They wouldn’t let him carry at work, but they didn’t and couldn’t control his actions on his off-hours. Thankfully. It was a look that got him chicks by the wagonload. 

Taking a minute to calibrate his hand, he glanced at the mirror. Perfect.

***

As always, the southbound traffic was a nightmare. Ash flicked the creaky old dial of his rented Ford around until it pulled in some classic rock; he tapped his toes as he accelerated down to the S-Mart and clocked in.

As he tucked his punchcard into the machine, he glanced up at the girlie calendar someone had posted on the cork board. November first. But that was yesterday.

He grabbed Chuck by the arm as he meandered his way from the breakroom, the awful sense of déjà vu he’d been suffering balling up in an icy knot in his stomach. “Hey, someone forgot to change the date.”

He frowned down at Ash, intimidatingly tall. “Then why doncha do it yourself?” he squinted at the date and shook his shaggy head. “It IS the first.”

“Oh,” Ash said, then stood taller and insisted, “sure, I knew that.”

Chuck pulled out of Ash’s grip. “Williams, you’d better watch yourself. Word at the top ain’t good at all Smart’s been talking about benching you. He thinks you’ve cracked.”

“I ain’t crazy,” Ash snarled. Crazy may have been in the eye of the beholder, but every scar on his face spoke the truth right out loud. 

Chuck stared at him. “My ass. You keep walking around housewares telling that story to anybody who’d hear it. I know losing Linda’s gotta be a bitch…”

“Don’t bring her up,” Ash growled, his eyes darkening dangerously.

“…We all miss her,” Chuck concluded. “But you ain’t doing yourself a favor with management running around telling that damn story to anyone who’ll listen.”

“Damn it, how many times do I have to…”

Chuck grabbed Ash by his forearms. “It was a bunch of animals, man. They tore her up. They said whatever it was…wasn’t human. It made you black out, and marked you up. You just forgot what happened after.”

Ash yanked himself away from Chuck’s touch. “I’ll never forget….wait a minute. What the hell? Didn’t you see what they did yesterday?”

“I was off, man. I toldja – my old lady had tickets to a monster truck pull. It was Sunday.” Ash’s eyes widened and he backed away, completely confused. “You don’t look good. You sure you don’t want me to clock in for you?”

Ash shook his head. “I’m okay. It’s…nothin’.” He took a deep breath. “Just fine.” He clocked in and headed for Housewares.

The new toasters were in; that was enough to occupy Ash for hours while he stocked shelves, pulled the older models and shoved them onto carts in the blue light special section, then, reticketing everything with fresh price codes. He spent a half-hour trying to convince an elderly woman to buy a more expensive microwave before being outwitted by her need for an inferior model that better fit her income. The worst part of it all was that Ash knew that he had done it all before – he did it in a different way, but it was still the same set of choices offered up for the picking. He got a blue Razzberry Squashee from the cafeteria and came back to his post to find Iggy nosing through his stockpile.

“I saw these at Wal-Mart for half the price,” he muttered to Ash, and his friend quieted him with a glare.

Ash stared him down. “Don’t let on. Smart will drop the prices even lower and our bonuses will get flushed down the john.”

Iggy snorted contemptuously. “I think they’re already gone,” he replied. “So, how much more’re you gonna take before you transfer out?”

“I think they need me here. Gonna stick around for as long as the benefits hold out.”

“Riight,” Iggy replied. “Since those things ate your hand you’ve gotta have a hell of a need for meds. How many times have you told me that stupid story?”

“It ain’t a story.” Ash snarled. “Y’know, Iggy, I coulda been king…”

“Oh God, not this shit again.” But Ash subjected Iggy to the story once more, complete with gestures and effusive emotions. 

“…I could’ve saved ‘em. Could’ve gotten them all back to where they belonged. But they had to go out in the woods, had to see for themselves the darkness of the night…”

“…You’ve been listening to the Cure too much, man,” complained Iggy. But Ash continued on, chronicling the loss of his hand, his girl, hell, life as he knew it, chronicling every second until and after he met Sheila. 

“I wasn’t no gentleman, but a lady like her…she needed a man, a real man. I looked around and decided I was the only one who passed muster…”

“Oh God…” Iggy groaned.

“Shut up! I’m getting to the good part!” Ash snarled. “I toldja. My name was Ash – I was a slave…”

Iggy rolled his eyes. “if you were a slave, why did they try to kill you instead of making you do slave-things?”

“Just…shut up and let me tell the goddamned story!” Ash frowned, and Iggy backed up, rolling his eyes and letting him speak.

And so he went through the tail end of the story, through Sheila’s return from voodooville to her miraculous resurrection. Standing back, panting, he reminded Iggy that once upon a time he could’ve been king. But he chose to come back. Yeah, that was right: he picked this place and its people over the clean air and unlaundered people of Kandar, and he was PROUD.

Predictably, Iggy just asked him if he said the words right.

Of course he said the words right! He had to have said them right! Why the hell, how the hell, could he have said them wrong? He wondered that through his lunch break, as he re-priced and re-stocked the shelves and tried to make hot dog cookers look passably interesting. When Laura suddenly showed up in her vacuum-packed skirt, he knew what was coming, and this time he managed to kill her without taking out half of sporting goods.

He let go of Laura before she could complain about his grabbing her ass. “You, me and a bottle of wine at six, baby. What’ve you got to lose?”

This time she smirked. “For a pig you’ve got a lot of charm.” She smirked. “All right, you can take me out.”

He grinned and snapped his fingers at Iggy. “Get the King a new Squishee,” he growled. “And make it snappy!” 

Iggy rolled his eyes and leaned against the crates. “Right, king, sure, whatever.” But he followed the command. As Ash gathered up soccer balls and scattered casing shells, Mister Smart blustered up, his grey hair glistening with a sheen of sweat plastering his toupee to his forehead.

“Thanks for saving the store, boy – here’s the key to the employee washroom and a coupon for limitless trips to the salad buffet in the food court.”

“Yeah,” Ash growled, “thanks.” 

“You’re the future of this company, Ash – embrace it, as you embrace all tomorrows.”

Suddenly, they didn’t see him as a huge schlub anymore. Suddenly, Ash was cock of the walk, king of the S-Mart, god of their craphole universe. When he picked up Lara outside the shop at about three, she was actually eager to see him. He took her to Weiner World, they had dinner, and then made out in the back of his car. They rushed back to his apartment, and he taught her who the king was.

From every possible angle.

Then he made himself a sandwich and slept with her head pillowed on his chest.

*** 

His alarm rang out at 6 sharp. For just a minute, he tensed and turned over. 

Unmade sheets. No sign of Laura, not even a red hair on his pillow. His dick was dry, his wastebasket denuded of the condom he’d dumped into it the night before. Ash may have been a stubborn guy, but the evidence was mounting up that this day would be just like the other two: a Monday. A Deadite festival.

He rolled over and called in sick – Ask Mary to cover for him. He didn’t bother to shower or turn on the TV before dressing in the same damn outfit and hitting the road.

Ash Williams was headed to the one place he didn’t want to spend his mock-sick day. 

The library.

*** 

“I’m looking for the old book room.” 

The woman behind the counter – heavyset with spectacles and arched dark brows – eyed him over the counter. “I see. You have a valid student ID?”

He clenched his metallic fingers around his library card, crunching it hard and fast in his grip. “How about this?”

She sighed, picking up a ring of spare keys and leading him into the room. “You have six hours before it closes for the spring semester,” she declared, watching Ash as he eyed the carefully preserved volumes and pages. 

“Right. Thanks,” he grumbled, scanning the shelves. He knew that it had to be somewhere, up in those fusty, musty shelves. He grabbed a plastic glove from the box stationed beside the books and started pulling them off the shelves in piles, digging through the pages, looking for one particular, familiar volume. 

He knew where it had been placed, after the police investigation had turned up nothing of importance, and once the last will and testament of Annie Knowby had been read. Bequeathed to the Library of Michigan University had been all of her father’s papers and unfinished documents and his books, the volumes broken up and scattered by era. He expected to find such a morbid artifact locked up in safety forever, but no one believed his stories about its power. It was, predictably, stored wrapped in cellophane, preserved from the breath and touch of other humans. 

Ash seized it and clutched it under his arm, toting the book like a football to the check-out desk. She rolled her eyes when he presented it with a curt ‘this one’ at the check-out desk.

“You know I can’t issue that book to you,” she snottily replied. “This library has policies that can’t be revoked…”

Ash glared down at her. “What if I told you the fate of the world was resting on the back of this slip of toilet paper?”

She rolled her eyes, noting again his metal hand. “I’ll take you at your word,” she declared, inking up her stamp. “But only to avoid bloodshed.”

“Whatever.” She signed it out for two weeks , then ran two stoplights trying to get home with the damn thing. Once there, he locked himself in his apartment and circled it like an angry shark dreaming of a hot lunch. 

He poked it carefully, just a little jab in the ribs to see if he could get it to stir or something. Nope. Not a page was fluttered. Since he’d already woken the dead, he didn’t bother trying to fumble with the words again – he pulled it up and slapped it open.

As much as holding the damn thing again gave him the douche chills, Ash knew he couldn’t waste time being creeped out . He needed some kind of answers before the sun set and he was forced to relive the same damn day over again. While Ash couldn’t’ read ancient Sumerian, he could try to translate it by looking at the gruesome illustrations filling the book. Which were mostly of men having their spines torn from their bodies and demons snarling lustily up from wrinkled reams of ancient human flesh.

Ash paged quickly through the different volumes until, at last, he came across the right pages; the ones sewn back into the book after his attempted destruction of it. His face and form, with gun aloft and chainsaw at the ready, and he knew someone – or something – had carefully chronicled his time in the ancient ages. He forced himself to try and translate them into something understandable to his own eye; thankfully they were fairly explicit, showing him walled away in the cave, and then a mirrored image of himself in the S-Mart, repeated like a hall of mirrors in a sequential set of images.

“Guess I’ve got some words to say,” he growled. “But which words, and how? And what?” He groaned. “Piece of shit.” He threw the book across the room and stomped to the refrigerator for a beer. He’d wasted half of the day on a lousy hunch. 

Out of guilt, he grabbed the book and replaced it upon the coffee table. He slipped the pages over and closed before stomping away to the nearest bar. If the world was going to be a pain in the ass to him, he might as well get liquored up enough to absorb the blow.

By the time Ash had taken his usual stool at the Hi Klass Klub, he was completely stumped by the situation. Utterly stumped. Something was making him relive the same twenty-four hours again and again, but what that something was, who was pulling the strings, he couldn’t understand.

“All because of one lousy misspoken word. Goddamned creaky old kooks,” he grumbled. He said to the man beside him, “you know, doncha, old man? Y’screw up just once and they make you pay ‘til your ears’re bleeding.”

The elderly man turned toward him, and Ash instantly recognized his gin blossomed nose and long, white beard. Even with his ‘I lost my nuggets at the Gold Nugget’ teeshirt and jeans, he knew he was in trouble. “Tis a question ye know the answer to well, Promised One.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Ash groaned. “How in the hell did you find me?”

“Tis the work of the book,” he declared. “It hath been chronicling thy progress here – the good and the bad ye have done, and the misspoken words ye have announced aloud.” 

Ash winced. “Yeah well – why the hell’d they have to be so damn weird? Why not make ‘em ‘Open Sesame’ or something like that?”

“Fool,” the Wiseman sighed. “When ye misspake the words, ye froze time for thee, as well as for our people.”

Ash raised an eyebrow. “Woah, chief, you can’t blame me for that one. Once I left that place everything was hunky-dory!”

“Aye, it was fine – but then ye misspake the words! And so for the past five hundred years we hath lived the same day o’re and o’re, ne’re aging, ne’re passing beyond the day after thy departure. I hath cast a spell of invisibility to shield the kingdom for a thousand years, but I cannot hold back the outside world forever – the barrier betwixt the worlds weaken, day by day and hour by hour! And so I took the gauntlet in hand and attempted to find thee in the only manner available – I cast a scrying stone and checked the portents of thy very existence. Twasn’t hard to find thee, for ‘twas a great fanfare made when ye emerged from thy endless sleep-dwelling. But ye must return with me to Kandar and set the world right again.”

“No. No no no no! No way, no how, no spinning winds and landing on my head again, mack! I lived up to my end of the deal, now live up to yours and scram!” He barked, sloshing whiskey over the bar.

“There shall be no transportation – all is within the bounds of London. I might scram, but if I didst so, ye would still be trapped within this one day. Ye would be doomed to live it over and over again, unceasing, losing every change of season and moment of progress ye made.”

Ash glowered. “So, maybe I’ll get used to it! I won’t mind getting bruised all over by that S-Mart bitch-witch! I’ll just do it again ‘til I get it right.”

“The prophecies say ye shall never ‘get it right’ without my assistance,” the Wiseman barked. “If ye do not follow me, all shall be doomed! The world outside shall discover us, and we, the unlucky many, shall shrivel and die in the light!”

Ash eyed him. “No windtunnels? No traveling-to-the-past-to-right-it-all?”

“Ye need but go with me to London, to the place where time has stood still. All else shall be managed for thee.”

Ash stared at his glass of whiskey. What choice did he have but to follow the Wiseman to the mini-Brigadoon he’d inadvertently made? “You promise?”

“I promise there shall be no tunnels. Now will ye come?!”

Ash glowered at his old man. Even though he knew it was his fault that the entire country was displaced, he refused to accept the ultimate blame for it. With a snarl, he said, “tell me what I’ve gotta do.”

The elderly man finished his beer. “First,” he declared, “we must retrieve the Necronomicon and my robes from the bus locker. Then we shall fly to London. Pay the good man,” he suggested blithely.

Ash sneered and reached into his wallet. “Yeah…hey, wait…isn’t London ahead of America? So if we fly there we’ll just be flyin’ into the next day!”

“Not if we travel by other means…” the old man’s eyes glinted brightly in the neon haze.

“NO. VORTEXES!” Ash boomed, slamming a ten dollar bill onto the bar. 

“Nay, no ‘vortexes’.” He said. “But there is a way to beat fate at its own filthy game. Via potions.”

Ash’s eyes widened, his face straining into a comical grimace. He knew he had no choice in the matter but the old coot could’ve given him a way out. His jaw hardened into a single, solid line, and he turned to face his doom.

“Okay. What do I have to slurp?”

*** 

The Wiseman stirred up a brew of willow and mushroom under Ash’s watchful gaze in a metallic pot; the hour was growing late, and he knew if he didn’t agree to this madness there would be no stopping the wickedness that threatened to permanently consume all life around them.

He handed Ash a Dixie cup filled with the bitter dregs of brew. “Now on the count of three swallow…” he looked up to see that Ash had drained the cup instantly.

And disappeared, transporting directly out of his clothing. 

The Wiseman let out an impatient groan and swallowed his own draught; in the blink of an eye he was standing beside Ash, nude on a very modern London street. 

It had taken Ash all of a minute to realize that he was naked, then that he was on a corner in one of the busiest cities in all of Europe; he let out a squawk and tried to cover up his groin.

“Fear not – they cannot see you. Nor can they see this,” declared the Wiseman. Holding up his hand, he recited an incantation that made the world before them waver, then part in a golden light; there, right in the middle of the cobblestone-coated road. Ash gawked at the scene, but the Wiseman had done this before; he simply stepped forward, onto sand suddenly washed bare, into brush that was ancient and gnarled, where once had stood a pushcart, a newspaper stand, and a tenement building.

The Wiseman rummaged into the bushes, pulling out a tunic and breeches for Ash, donning his own robe; he explained later on that he’d been a county traveler for Arthur’s people, making pilgrimages out into the world, looking for Ash. He hid behind a tree and dressed quickly. 

When he emerged, they walked up the short pathway toward the castle. A terrible thought burst to life in Ash’s brain, and he whirled toward the Wiseman.

“Hey old man…are you the only one who knows what’s going on?”

“Most do not remember. There is one particular exception to the rule.” He strode across the open drawbridge with great commanding force. 

“Woah, wait – tell me who the…” but then the castle’s people rushed up to surround him, cheering the return of the Promised. He rolled his eyes and started kissing babies, shaking hands, and acknowledging the scrapers and bowers. When the crowd finally thinned, he watched the old Wiseman doing his own bowing – for Lord Arthur, who hadn’t aged a day since Ash had ridden out of the castle.

“Friend,” Arthur said in greeting. Their hug was awkward. “Did the potion not work?”

That ruled Arthur out as the clued-in time-warper. Ash shook his head. “Just needed to take a little siesta. You got a warm bed?” 

“Eternally,” Arthur grinned. “Sheila shall be pleased to see thee.”

His heart leapt into his throat. He’d completely forgotten about Sheila’s presence – the idea of confronting her once more was a somewhat unpleasant prospect. They’d had their little moment in the sun together, but that was over. It had to be over, for their mutual good. 

Those thoughts went right out the window when he saw her lingering in the archway of the castle, her knuckles pale on the hard rock battlements and her eyes set square upon his face. It was enough to make Ash lose his courage and falter mid-step, if only for a moment. But then he lifted his head and puckered his lips, giving her a rakish smirk. 

She glowered down at him, turning away and rushing down the steps. He expected a sweet, warm welcome back, and puckered his lips as she rushed toward him.

He got a knuckle sandwich right to the kisser instead.

Ash fell back, gasping in surprise at the pain, but Sheila glared down at him. “Ye selfish bastard!” she snapped. “Ye roten swine’s arse of a hellspawn’d frogswottle!” 

“That’s a funny way of saying hello, sugar,” he growled, rubbing his chin. The girl could pack a punch, but they both knew that. She stood over him in a pale blue dress, her hands tucked to her hips, glaring down with glittering, dark eyes.

“Ye’ve much to explain. Too many things hath gone wrong, and ye’re the wellspring of misery behind them! I know ‘tis the truth! The wiseman says that ye misspake the words once more, that ‘tis thy fault that we’re living the same long day o’re and o’re again!” She glared down at him. “I shall not allow thee to dazzle me with thy words and charm. Ye shall give me the truth in straight honesty – ye’re the one who hath wrought such calamity upon my people!”

Ash squinted at her in the sunlight as he scrambled to his feet “You’re a chatty dame. Don’t remember talking this much the first time we met.” Her knee met his gut once more, but this time he caught her by the ankle and dragged her against his body. “Look, this ain’t my fault,” he growled. “I didn’t choose to get you stuck somewhere in time. If I could, I’d help ya, but I don’t know how this happened. I don’t even know why it happened – just that I’m stuck here living the same day over and over just like you.”

Sheila’s jaw trembled briefly before she lowered her knee. “Five hundred years I have lived, dreaming of cutting thy throat out and spilling thy blood ‘cross the clean earth. Five hundred years without a snowfall or a spring blooming, with no wind nor rain. These many years I have lived and lain in wait for thee, hoping ye would rescue me from the ceaseless cycle, but ne’re did you arrive.”

“Gimmie a break, baby,” he grunted. “I just joined the program.” 

“Aye, I should have credited thee with little insight. Thy lack of care hath put this world in grave danger, Ashley.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t mean to.” 

“Something ye’ve said again and again,” she remarked. “When thou dost mean it, I shall believe it.” She stomped her foot childishly and wheeled around on her heel, running toward the safety of the castle.

Ash was on his feet and shouting; he caught up to her in the safety of the main castle, near the great room. “Hey! I mean it all right! It’s not like I don’t want you to be happy.”

She glared at him, stiffening against his clutching fingers. “I wouldst believe thee in this. The wiseman didst say he would find thee, but did ye find him afore?”

“Uh…sure, baby,” he lied smoothly. She gave him an odd glance but added no question to the brew of lies he’d concocted. 

“Aye. Well, then, ye should be prepared for a fine feast. I shalt stir the chefs and the bakers to work; and I believe ye shall be indebted to the Wiseman for an hour or so of his brilliant counsel?”

“Right,” Ash replied. “Think I’ll take a raincheck on his brilliance. But you and me, baby, we got business…” 

She rolled her eyes when he tried to drag her close. “Ashley…”

“Whatt’re you crying about? You’re still a woman, and I’m still a man – don’t think a couple of hundred years changed that one.”

She pushed him away. “Ye did not pay me proper court then. If ye wish’d to have court with me now, I wouldst give myself up to proper, kind, COURTEOUS courting. But I doubt ye could provide it.”

“Liked my manners fine on that barn floor, baby. Least as far back as I can remember.” 

She pulled away and stalked through the great room into the kitchens. “I lack time for such foolishness as this! Ye had best fix this world, Ashley, or we are doomed to live and live again this ceasing, endless day!” 

Ash moved to follow her retreating form but he was clapped upon the shoulder and dragged toward the hearth before he could reach Sheila. Arthur pushed a tankard of beer into his hand and sat him down.

“We have much to discuss. What have ye learned about the Terror, and what canst we do to cease their endless prating’s?”

“Uh…” Ash shrugged. “Keep doin’what I taught you to do. If you really want, I can teach ya how to make a gatling gun – you might need something for the turrets. If you can smell ‘em , you can kill ‘em,” he added.

“We wouldst need more scrap metal – perhaps the gunnery could spare more armor. I must speak to my man at arms at once.” He clasped Ash’s shoulder again. “I shall owe you a great deed, Promised.”

Ash’s mind was a million miles away. “Right,” he said. “just tear ‘em up and throw them away.”

Arthur saw what Ash saw; Sheila with her head bowed to a fragrant bowl of stew. “She has missed you,” Arthur declared. “Even one day of separation from thee pained her grievously, and she could not bend her mind to any task I set her to.”

Ash smirked. “Sheila’s not the pining type.”

“Nay. But in regard to thee… I should say that all seems quite possible in thy case.” Arthur continued to watch her. “I thought to send her with thee in token of thanks, but Sheila is not a biddable woman and would like say nay to the suggestion.”

Ash choked on his ale, and received another hearty whack upon the back for his troubles. “No shit,” he grunted. “I don’t think she woulda gone with me. She belongs here, Arthur.” But that didn’t mean they couldn’t dally a bit.

He shook his head. “’Twas not her homecastle. She once lived with her mother and father, closer to the scotch border in a hard castle crag named Stolen Eve. Her father wert my cousin, and bade me take her when she grew closer to becoming of marrying age. They could not find any willing to risk the distance and take her without sight; hough she be strong and though she be beauteous, none will risk the curse that the dead hath placed upon her brow.” 

“That sucks.” 

“But ye have risked it.”

Ash blew back a cloud of foam from the top of his tankard. “Huh?!”

“Ye’ve taken the risk and lov’d her twice o’re now.”

There was only one tell when Ash Williams was embarrassed; his ears turned bright red. They were scarlet right now under his mass of dark curls. “Who the hell told you that?”

“Sheila spoke to my wife. ‘Twas her soul ye saved in the courtyard some hours ago during the battle.” 

Ash scoured his memory to recall the woman; oh, the redhead who’d had a Deadite climbing her back rabbit-style. One of his prouder moments that night. He shrugged and stuck a finger in his waistband. “Just doing what any decent guy would do.” He pulled his feet up on the mantle and leaned back.

“It showed great fortitude, especially in the light of thy previous cowardice.”

Ash winced. “Whydoncha rub it in a little harder?” he asked. “So I wasn’t perfect! Not everyone can stand up to the shit bein’ promised puts you through.”

“Nay – tis no slur on thy later brav’ry.” Arthur returned to the subject at hand. “Ye do understand that I would not have allowed ye to dally with my cousin were ye not destined to save us?”

“Uh…’course I knew,” he laughed. “When you’re Promised you’re born knowing you’re special,” he blathered. “The best in the world at what he does.” Ash’s voice cracked. “At savin’ you primitive types from Deadites,” he added quickly.

“Aye,” Arthur said shortly. “I must warn thee that I shall not tolerate any further fraternization with my cousin,” he declared. “Unless you wish to make a pact with me and marry her.”

“Yeah,” Ash scratched the back of his neck. “Uh…me and Sheila’ll…talk about that or something…Oh look, the Wiseman needs me!” He sprung from his seat and jaunted toward the archway. He knew where the old man’s rooms were, and chose to hide out there until the dinner meal.

It was, ultimately, more of a torture to sit still in the old man’s room and listen to him blather about potions and dosages and the right words to set the world into forward motion once more. Many spells were tried and discounted – as shouted that he was calling it quits the second one of them caused a frog to fly from his lips. 

  


“’Twasn’t my fault,” The Wiseman declared as Ash stomped down to the great hall. The room already had filled with various appetizing odors and Ash’s mouth started watering.

“Stuff it,” he demanded, sitting down near the head of the table, the ‘honored guest’ position. Ash had forgotten how many knights, royal women and people of ‘good standing’ Kandar hosted in a week; there seemed to be a hundred people sitting in a semi-circle around him, lifting tankards of ale, conversing, laughing and gossiping, their own little dramas playing out alongside the larger canvas of the homecastle. 

Ash noted Sheila’s tensed shoulders as she chopped her meat with a small pocket knife; a token gift he’d given to her because he hated watching her tear it up with her fingers like a primitive. She didn’t look at him when he asked her to pass the potatoes, simply tossed one of the baked russets at him. She held the knife in a tight clench. He should have guessed the next logical step in the road – predicted the roar of the wind and the sudden guttering of the lights. 

She beat him to the punch, the knife entering and exiting its rotted arteries with great speed. The servant spewed black blood over the floor as it howled. Sheila stabbed it repeatedly with bored solemnity, until someone came to scrape the twitching parts from the floor with a long broomstick.

Ash tried to yank his jaw from the floor, and Sheila noted his confusion as she sipped her drink.

“I do not wear my best finery to diner,” she declared. “I wouldst spoil it now.” She seemed pretty damn angry, and Ash couldn’t understand why she thought she had the right to feel that way. Hey, he’d done his part, the best way he knew how. 

“You primitives had Deadites before me,” he pointed out. 

“La,” she shrugged. “But this Deadite arrives at two seconds past Pence every eve, just after Arthur slices the roast.” The courtiers around her panicked wildly, pulling their goblets and saving the meal from the arterial jet of black blood from the ex-serving boy. Sheila wiped away a stray thread of the goo, kicking the dissolving corpse under the table as it howled its last. “Five hundred years it has happened. I have done what I could to avoid the same fate from happening again, still it doth occur.” She shifted her shoulders. “It hath become quite a game.” She raised a palm and said firmly to the panicked audience surrounding her, “please be still. ‘Tis but another flash of dark mischief. All is well now.”

Ash felt sorry for her, but he wouldn’t admit that, either. “Yeah. Too bad,” he went for his goblet, only to see the contents had turned that distinctive inky color of Deadite blood. He dumped it quickly on the tray of a shivering table servant. “This isn’t my problem. You know it ain’t. You had Deadites before I was a drop of joy juice in my Gandpa’s nutsack.” When the audience didn’t immediately obey Sheila and looked to Arthur for guidance, he circumvented her authority by standing up and bellowing, “mind your own business!” He sat down, muttering, “damn primitives. Got a couple of good ones floating around with can take orders, but they’re still a buncha dumbasses.”

Sheila clearly disliked his high-handed behavior. “I blame thee for but one thing,” she said firmly. “This repetition of time. The unpleasantness of the change in my people – in me – and being the only one among us to understand except for the Wiseman what truly has happened. Tho thou does not care for them, to me they arethe tribe of my blood.” 

Ash glanced at the table of courtiers. The once-natural atmosphere of discussion and joviality had been seriously strained, and he noticed the vague tension. Someone came forth and mopped down the table, replacing the food; another offered Sheila a cloth to cleanse herself with, but she waved them off. He knew instantly that she had turned into someone even stronger than the woman who had valiantly smacked him across the head with a rock – and the idea frankly scared the shit out of him. “So…guess you grew up a little?”

She drank steadily from the new goblet and daintily ate most of the duck roast she’d pulled from a fresh serving platter before she dignified his remark with an answer. “I hath lost all fear,” she replied, with a shrug of her shoulders. “Tis the sole adjustment I have made. I am still myself.” She turned her clear, steady of gaze, bearing a look that was laden with intense power. Ash watched her over the top of his glass, impressed by the intensity with which she had transformed the scene into something more noble. “Eat,” she demanded, her eyes lowered to her own plate. 

Ash started eating the meat. Without another word, in fact, he managed to eat every morsel on the wooden platter he’d used for a plate. Sheila had the scraps of bone taken away without further word; cheese, wine and tarts were brought forth, along with fresh fruits.

Ash ate of the deserts with aplomb, enjoying the tart-sweet burst of fruit as it rolled over his tongue. The rest of the courtiers waited for him to finish and, once the Promised had taken his full from the repast, someone called for a mandolin player, and a fiddler. With that, the evening’s entertainment began.

Jugglers balanced great golden balls of metal on the tips of their fingers, jiggling it high in the air. There were dancers who moved to the rhythm of the harpists, and many of the nobles moved forward to join Sheila and the others in their dance.

It was one of ancient motions and long-ago held secrets – Ash did not know the steps and thus hung back, his eyes large and wary, watching Sheila flit from one man to another, laughing merrily. They locked eyes and she held out her right hand, beckoning him on with a tiny smile. “I do await thee, Milord.” 

Ash smirked. “I don’t dance.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled him onto the floor. “Yes ye do,” she replied, quietly, primly, and took the tips of his fingers in her palm. “Ye simply have not been taught properly.”

He stared at the sight of his hand in hers, disturbed by the tingle of warm familiarity that ran through him. It was wrong for him to feel this way, so soon after he’d lost Linda, so quickly after her death and burial. He tried to pull away but Sheila’s agile fingers held him still. “Don’t wanna learn,” he growled. 

She smiled. “Not for me, fair sir? Not e’en for the pleasure of seeing my body move back and forth?”

Ash stared at her cleavage. “I think I might be able to do the do. That is, if you’re willing, princess?”

“La, ye’ve elevated me to royalty?” she teased, moving in concert with Ash’s motions. “I am well and truly charmed.

“Y’don’t have to be pushy about it,” he growled, tucking her close to his body. “What do pretty medieval ladies like you do on nights like this? Tryn’ drive their little boyfriends mad?”

“Are ye my…’boy-friend’ now?”

He smirked down at her. “Dunno. D’you want me to be your boy-friend?” he responded, copying her clipped accent accurately.

Her elbow smacked into her side. “Shall ye not give me proper respect, milord?”

“Yeah, I will. Nice frock, by the way,” he grinned, staring down her cleavage.

“Sir, this is…rather indecent,” she complained. 

“Right. I’ve seen you lookin’ at me like a hot turkey dinner, sugar,” he replied. “Think you wanna see my boomstick again.” She trod quite deliberately and heavily upon Ash’s toes in response. “HEY!”

“That is for the horses, milord,” she replied spiritedly. “I believe that ye would find kinder companionship among them with such a churlish attitude.”

“I ain’t no churl! Whatever that means!” He pouted selfishly down at Sheila, which only earned him a roll of her eyes and a laugh. 

“Ye would be far more fearsome wert thy cowl not askew,” she said, helping him fix his clothing. He glowered and tried to move out of her grip – his blood-stained work uniform too similar to the outfit he’d sported when they’d last parted. She smiled and stroked his cheek. “Ever the fussy one,” she complained. “Ye ought not to press so hard, milord. ‘Tis unseemly and unbecoming of a lord of thy stature.”

He rolled his eyes. “Arthur didn’t knight me, and I ain’t no Prince Charming,” he replied. “So get those stars out of your eyes, princess. I’m a loner. A rebel.”

“La, a rebel?” She stared at his eyes with great amusement.

“A rebel! I don’t follow nobody’s rules! I led an army of knights against a buncha skeletons without fudging my tighty-whities!” He was nearly shouting now, and Sheila eyed him with sparkling amusement in her eyes. 

“A rebel.”

“A rebel!”

“Ashley?”

“WHAT?!”

“Ye’ve raspberry jam on thy neck.”

Ash rolled his eyes and pulled her even closer, and kissed her neck as he did so. He locked eyes with Arthur from across the room. Kandar’s great lord was staring at Ash as he and Sheila tangled their arms. It was oddly sensual to be this close to her, to touch this way, with everyone watching as Sheila led him again through the old-as-time steps to the court dance.

She nestled against him. “It has been lonely without thee, Milord,” she confessed. “I must admit that I didst miss thee.”

He laughed cruelly. “You’d have to be blind not to notice that one, princess.”

“Blind or without reason. Perhaps both.” She moved him easily around as the dance ended. “Tis not easy being alone within this realm – to know that my parents have died.” She admitted. “I am solitary and quite used to it, and yet...”

“…When you’re the only one it’s like you’re waiting for them to come back through the door every day.”

Sheila froze at Ash’s declaration. “Like every day blends to the last. And all ye wish for is the sweet succor of a true companion.”

Ash gave a rusty laugh at the look on her face, the stare she wore. He gently shook her off. “Yeah, princess. Whatever.”

Sheila shook her head and turned her gaze back toward Arthur. “I do believe my cousin wishes a brief word with thee. When ye’re finished, I shalt be within the tower.” With that, Sheila bowed and walked from the floor, her skirts gathered daintily in her fist.

Ash watched her leave, then grunted and turned toward Arthur as he approached. “Before you get the wrong idea,” he said, holding up a supplicating hand, “your cousin came on to me.” That was the story Ash was sticking to, come hell, highwater, or creative application of rack and screw.

“I did not suggest that ye did,” Arthur declared. “But I must warn thee that she is a woman of rare distinction and class, and deserves only the finest and most upstanding of gentleman to guide her within the world of love. In the scant day since thy departure, she has rather loudly yearned for thee,” he added. “Tis quite a show, to see such a composed woman throw herself in ager upon the battlements of love.” 

Ash raised an eyebrow. All of that fancy-pants talk about love and of honor just felt like a smoke-screen for what Sheila really wanted, really needed – a good old-fashioned screwing. Yeah, that explained everything – the weird feeling he got when he saw her, the way he smelled her perfume lingering in the air – the way he felt whenever she smiled, and the weird leap his guts did whenever he saw her. Yeah, that was definitely it. She was making him crazy with her chick wiles and her crazy primitive ways and…hey, was Arthur still talking?

“Run that by me again?”

Arthur glared. “No wonder ye cannot remember a few simple words,” he glowered.

Ash pouted. “Watch your mouth, Dudley Moore! I know more about the damn book than your poor little peanut-sized brain could comprehend!”

Arthur stared up at Ash, clearly amused by his insistence. “Aye, I suppose your superior experience art in evidence.” 

Ash glowered down at him. “Y’ want a war?”

“Never, friend,” replied Arthur. “But tis in thy best interest to treat my cousin with the utmost sincerity.”

“Right,” he straightened his jaw and said resolutely, “sincerity. I got it.”

“Are you sure that you….?”

“I said. I’ve got it,” Ash growled. “I’ve been courting women…” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been caring for women for a damn long time now. I know how to avoid hurting her.” 

“Tis thy own battle. But I warn thee – she will not give up so easily.”

“…You warned me twice.” 

Arthur clapped his shoulder and pushed him toward the arched doorway. “Tis a fact worth repeating,” he declared.

“Pushy twerp,” Ash muttered, adjusting his clothes one more time as he strode confidently toward the archway. Several flights of stairs later and Ash found himself standing beside Sheila in the twilight. She drank of a cup of hot mead, staring at the slowly descending sun. Ash felt his skin crawl as the sun slowly descended; he would always find the sight of it somewhat reminiscent of his time at the cabin, his time with those many demonic trees.

“Ye’ve returned for the right purpose,” she pointed out. “E’en if you feel nothing for me but fondness, ‘tis time we tried to discover why ye’ve caused such madness in thy wake.”

“That’s the Wiseman’s bag,” Ash scoffed. “I’d rather study you.”

She sat down upon the stone arch of the parapet, her gaze uncommonly direct and strong. “Ye’ve made that known. ‘Pillow Talk’….”

He held up a hand. “Hold your horses, Ariel. We ain’t turning the car around and going back to that little emotional trash heap.”

“Oh nay,” Sheila said, with a pronounced roll of her eyes, “let us. One must consider thy stubbornness in all of its truest colors.”

Ash’s glare turned into a low-browed, dark-eyed scowl. “You gonna hold that against me forever? So what? So I said what we had was pillow talk! People in my time don’t mate for life. We grab life by the balls and milk it of every little drop of life…” He held out a finger and wagged it, “wrong metaphor.”

“Analogy.” 

“I don’t do anal.” 

She sipped the wine once more. “Ye’re baffling, Ashley. I cannot understand thee, try though I might. Ye’re still thyself, and ye’re still the most arrogant human being I hath ever spent time with,” she declared. 

“Takes one to know one, little miss rockthrower!” he shouted back. They were fighting like little children, spitting invective at one another like fools. 

Thunder crackled. Sheila’s eyes wrenched toward the sky, and she eyed the oncoming storm with true fear in her eyes. “’The storm is rising,” she declared. “It rises every eve.” She took her skirt. “Tis time for bed, fair sir. I shall see thee,” she leveled him with her frighteningly direct gaze. “I shall remember thee.” She declared, and turned, leaving him.

Ash stood in the rain for a minute, staring into the foreboding storm as it came on and soaked the battlements, washing Ash’s face clean. Every night it had rained for them, and every night they awoke to another attacking Deadite.

But he could only think of his own future now.

*** 

He stirred awake in his borrowed bed at the castle. There was the scent of something baking in the town square wafting through the oilcloth-covered windows, and the sound of Arthur’s men drilling down in the bailey, of women’s tongues clacking as they prepared for the morning’s meal. He pushed back a fur coverlet and, hearing a scuffling sound by the door, automatically reached for his gun and chainsaw where they’d been pitched carelessly aside before his slumber.

Sheila entered with a tray of food, her eyes dark and her emotions completely concealed. “Thy breakfast, milord,” she said blandly. She was acting the part of a servant, and for a woman as proud as Sheila to lower herself even slightly in station must have been powerfully humiliating for her. Ash didn’t have the grace to realize that. 

He ate sloppily as she watched him. “What?” he gargled out. 

“It has not changed,” she declared. “My maid offered the same dress, and the men say ‘tis the same day.” She went to the window and watched the men performing their drills in the courtyard below. “Ye’ve not been returned to thy own home.”

“Oh….uh…guess everything ain’t the way it used to be after all.”

She tuned about, giving him a quick glare. “Ye’re the sole change.” She threw him a simple lawn shirt. “Come down when ye’ve finished eating. We should be speak in confidence, but ye’re not decent.”

Ash had no idea why the hell she was suddenly turning prude on him, but he put on a shirt, a full-on glower in place. “Ain’t nothing you haven’t seen before, Cupcake.”

She glared at him. “Donay call me such a name!” She cried out. “In spite of our…camaraderie the eve before, ye’ve not offered me the proper recourse and safety of marriage, so I…”

“Cool your jets with the fancy talk,” Ash growled. “First of all, marriage ain’t safe. And even if it were, what makes ya think I’d wanna marry you?” Her mouth fell open and he held up a palm to cease her cries of outrage. “No, no,” he said. “Don’t even worry you pretty head for an answer. I know it’s hard to resist my studly influence, but a guy’s gotta keep his royal distance from his subjects. You and me agreed a long time ago that we weren’t gonna mess with each other anymore. You got your time, and I’ve got mine. That’s just how it goes,” he said. 

She glared up at him. “Simply how it goes Ashley?” She snarled.

“Right!” He pulled on the breeches she’d brought him and shoved his feet into his trusty hiking boots. “Now excuse me, I got some fine wenching to do.”

She slapped him across the face and stalked out of the room before he could stop her.

*** 

Wrenching was the one activity Ash wasn’t required to participate in on his first full day back in Kandar. Arthur – who was surprised to see him again, revealing that Sheila’s observations were correct – asked him to witness the new regimentation of Arthur’s troops. Soon Ash quickly pointed out a litany of flaws in the man’s techniques and started working around them, then helping them master new moves …ones he’d secretly picked up from an old Bruce Lee flick. 

When the castle’s church bells rang for the noon meal, The Wiseman approached Ash, dragging him off to sample a series of potions in the sanctity of his lab. Ash didn’t know why the old man needed him for his personal guinea pig, but he had been insistent, and so he found himself drinking bitter draughts of toad lungs and possum kidneys. Some made his skin turn green with blue polka-dots; others made him red and blue with grey stripes. One horrible batch made his voice high for a full hour. Finally, when his features had finally settled into normalcy, the man bade him go, vowing to discover just what mischief he had caused with his misspoken words. Dinner was much the same as it had been the night before, and that evening he and Sheila occupied the parapet with their private chatter.

“I wonder if it’s the storm,” Ash muttered. “Maybe I swallowed the blasted junk at the same moment that lightning struck.”

She shook her head. “It matters not what ye did but the words. What we need is a way to undo them.” She eyed him. “Ye’ve no clue just how to undo them, do ye?”

He rolled his eyes. “The blasted Wiseman has no clue how to undo ‘em!”

Sheila glared at him. “‘Tis because ye’re as stubborn goat. Always blustering.” 

“You liked that bluster plenty, once.”

“Aye,” she agreed. “But ye blow hot and cold. Ye’re so determined never again to..”

“To what, damn it?”

“FEEL,” she said, with great emotion. “Ye do any and everything ye might do to avoid attaching thy heart to the hearth of another woman.”

Ash stared after her, his eyes dark and cold as a thunderstorm as Sheila stared him down. “You don’t know me, baby,” he said. “Y’don’t know anything about the kinda life I live on the other side of that ocean.”

“I know that Linda meant a great deal to thee…”

“Don’t even go there,” he demanded, and she cringed away from his bluster, his wounding words. “Me and Linda were important. Don’t you go trackin’ her name through the mud.”

“I was,” she said, “trying to give her proper tribute.”

Ash stared at the oncoming storm. “I know you’re tryin’ to be nice, but don’t expect me to be all sweet while I’m stuck down the rabbit hole with all of your these and thous, sweet cheeks.”

Sheila watched him with her steady, fearless eyes. “I’ve no qualms with thy humors,” she replied. “I hath been intemperate since I met thee.” 

He smirked.

And then the tip of his index finger slipped into her clenched fist.

**  
The following morning, she brought his tray and sat at the edge of the bed with a hunk of bread and a slice of cheese. “Would ye like to do something afresh, milord?”

He paused mid-bite. “Maybe. Whattya got in mind?”

“I didst hope ye might like to go riding,” she declared. “My mare aches for a run. I suppose I hath not exercised her in the recent hours.”

“Fine. We might as well kick back,” Ash declared. 

Sheila smiled. “I shalt dress in my riding clothing. Shall ye be ready?”

“Yeah, just lemme finish my gruel.” He could accept the twists and curveballs being a time traveler had thrown at him; but the food? Bleah. He gave himself a quick bath and headed downstairs.

“All right, baby,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind riding along with the king…” He ceased his speech instantly. Sheila stood at the foot of the stairs in her riding clothes – a pair of tight breaches and a red blouse.

“Milord?” she asked, one eyebrow up.

“Uh…” he smirked. “Nice threads.”

She laughed. “Perhaps ye’d rather ride postilion?” 

He shook his head. “Gonna lead. It’s what I’m good at.” 

“Aye,” Sheila noted dryly. “Well…” she held out a hand. “Lead me then.” 

They galloped the illusory road down the cobbled pathway, through thickets of trees. Ash gauged the distance between them, trying to overtake Sheila’s stride, but she was an accomplished equestrienne, and stayed apace of him, her eyes alight and her hair thrown back in tumbled waves.

Ash stared at her for a damn long time. She was a potent sight. So potent that he didn’t see the low branch that set him sprawling into a very muddy heap on the ground, his horse cantering ahead.

In a few minutes she returned, his horse at her posterior and a smirk on her lips. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “tis my turn to lead.”

He said nothing as she rode a length before him, back to the castle.

*** 

Time marched on this way for quite awhile; every day they took their morning constitutional through the woods; every day learning new things about one another. It was a painfully long courtship – for a courtship it was, and even Ash wasn’t dumb enough to deny that something was building. They weren’t making love; they were doing everything but, and Ash didn’t know what he should expect, or if he should make a move on her. He was scared – not that he’d ever admit it out loud – after all, being scared was for wusses. So for what felt like years they existed through the same day, eating the same foods, but experiencing new conversations, sharing new ideas. 

The Wiseman consulted his books and tested Ash daily; the more time they spent ransacking the older man’s brain, the more obvious it became that something was afoot .

“If I cannot return thee to thy time,” he declared, “ye may be forced to stay among us.”

Ash’s gut should have clenched at this notion. “Actually…it doesn’t seem like too bad of an idea.” He shrugged. “I’d get to hang out with Sheila. And whatever I don’t got I can invent.” He smirked. “The Royal Court of Ash – can’t ya picture it?”

The Wiseman said, rather dryly, “If ye risk this, ye risk thy life. All of the prophecies suggest that once time begins to pass here it shall do so rapidly – all within this castle shall die and thy dynasty shall see its burial.”

Ash shrugged. “I ain’t no betting man, Methuselah,” he replied lightly. “Gimmie the last shot and I’m out of here for the day.”

The older man gave him a small tankard filled with a dark, foul-smelling brew. It tasted of roasted poppies, and when Ash drank it the world swayed for just a moment before settling back into its normal pattern.

“Damn,” the Wiseman remarked. 

“We have all the time in the world, man,” Ash replied, surprised by his own laid-back tone.

Ash found Sheila in the buttery, putting up large wheels of orange-and-blue-rined cheese. He watched her in the doorway for a moment before she coughed her annoyance. “I heard thy approach,” she declared, dusting off her apron. “Ye do not need to sneak upon me.”

“I’m not sneakin’. I’m appreciating.” She rolled her eyes and flicked a hair out of her eyes. “So…wanna take a walk?”

She smiled. “Aye,” she held out her arm and looped hers through his. 

They ended up taking a long walk into the forest, through its winding paths and mist-shrouded trees. Ash kept his hand on Sheila’s knee – though the Evil haunted the woods often, as of late it had not tried to threaten them here, perhaps because they sojourned out in the morning. They took cover beneath a large elm tree to watch the sun take its full mid-morning majesty in the clear blue sky. There, he swept her into a quick kiss and they melted into a warm embrace and made out innocently, like two teenagers. Ash realized how long they’d been walking and how late it was when he looked up again; it had turned dark – not the natural light of a night oncoming but a storm that gathered and quickly threatened to outstrip them. 

“Didst thou manage it?”

“No! I drank six brews today and nothing but…”

The thick, grey clouds were rolling overhead, bruising the sky, filling the humid air with urgency. A clap of thunder and then lightening. 

“Tis dangerous,” she murmured. “Mayhaps we should walk back?”

But something stilled Ash in his step. “No. Not yet,” he held out a hand. “Just stand still and listen.” 

They both heard it. The sound of something cracking. When he opened his eyes he saw the castle before them rapidly cycle through an aging process. Ash grabbed Sheila’s hand and felt it grow brittle and wrinkled in his grip.

“NO!” he shouted.

“Ashley,” she wheezed. “There is not much time. Only know that e’en in my stubbornness, I have loved thee.”

“No, Sheila – there’s gotta be a way for us to get around this.” He eagerly grabbed her hand and tried to pull her closer…only to have her arm break off in his hand. The rest of her collapsed back into his hands.

“Ashley…please…if ye can only give me one thing, let it be the word ‘love’ on thy lips as I die…”

The lightening increased. The flash of a bomb from the corner of his eyes – World War II bombardments scarring but not tumbling the Castle Kandar. “Damn right, I love you.” She was nearly gone now – before him a flash of light bloomed, pulling him forward like a magnet. “And I pick you,” he growled, and pulled her into the light with him.

*** 

There was an explosion. He felt it rocket through his body, then a hard impact against the small of his back. After a moment, he dared to open his eyes and peek at the surrounding universe.

Six pairs of eyes stared down at them. “Are you all right, sir?” someone asked in a British accent. Wonderful.

“Yeah,” he growled, shadowing his eyes from the light. “Get the hell away from me.” When they cleared out, he dared to take a look down at his lap.

The bundle of pink in his lap grunted. Then it sat up and brushed back her hair. 

She was whole. And real. And…

“You’re crushing my hip, baby.”

Sheila rolled to her behind and stared at the crowd of tourists around her. Managing an odd curtsey, she grabbed Ash and hauled him to his feet. “What hath occurred?”

“Think we broke the spell.”

She sighed. “As ye would say – duh. But how?”

Ash scratched his head and escorted her toward the safety of the sidewalk. “Y’mean all it took to set things right was for you to tell me you loved me?”

“Or vice-versa,” Sheila suggested

Ash rolled his eyes. “That’s a loada sap.”

“But ‘tis what occurred.”

Ash groaned and rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

“Well…mayhaps love be that way.”

He snickered and pulled her closer. “Yeah yeah. If I could get into thy panties ‘twould be great, milady.”

Sheila rolled her eyes. “Ye shall have to work to go so far, milord.”

Ash froze in mid-stride, staring at her. “Waddya mean?! I’ve been workin’ on you forever!”

“Perhaps ye shall have to wait longer, then,” she replied.

He glared. “Fine. As long as it takes…that’s how long I’ll wait.”

“Would ye wait an eternity for me, then?”

He looked askance. The truth came from between clenched teeth. “Maybe.”

She kissed his cheek, snickering. He laughed.

“Yeah. I would.” A scream echoed from further up the street. “Duty calls, babe.” He dipped her, kissed her, and unholstered his gun, then ran off to the fray, performing only for her admiring eyes.

***

And thus it was that the Promised lay with his Chosen woman. The issue of their love ruled continents and galaxies, going forward for several hundred centuries, all of the ones yet to come.

The End!


End file.
